Confessions Close to Heaven
by LSMunch
Summary: Everyone knows that John Munch has had some hard things in his past, even if he doesn't tell everyone wht they were. Here's a piece dedicated to his thoughts after we discover his father commmitted suicide.


Disclaimer: Don't own it. Never will. It's Dick Wolf's.

His breath came out in a plume of cold, condensed water. Rubbing his hands together, he looked over the city from his perch on the precinct roof. He was wearing a warm coat, hat, earmuffs, scarf and gloves, but it didn't matter. The cold cut him to the bone, which his partner would joke wasn't that far from the atmosphere anyway. Of course, the smart thing to do in this situation would be to go inside and look at the city from a window, where he could be warm. But being the contrary person he was, he stayed put, needing the cold air to stimulate his thoughts, at least, that's what he told himself.

Then again, he could just forget about the whole thing. Shove it away in some rarely seen corner of the brain where he wouldn't encounter it for another thirty five years. But knowing his luck, he also knew it wouldn't go away that easily. That case had shook him up. Shook him like a snow globe, shaking loose the memory, the fact, he'd tried to bury in case file facts and miscellaneous tidbits of information. He hadn't wanted to face it again, but knew he had to, and it both saddened and angered him. He didn't need to think about his horrible past when he had plenty of bad things to worry about now, in the present. The tragic things he faced today could last him till his dying day, and then some, without having to bring up the dregs of his childhood.

Try as he might, over the years, he could never bury this memory, this event, completely. Not when it was his own father and the sensitive area surrounding it. Hell, if he could, he'd wrap bubble wrap around the damn thing so he couldn't further worsen the memory by having it snag on some fact from a case. He knew he couldn't throw it away, but he wished he could hide it, if not so it wouldn't get worse, so he wouldn't have to look at it, replay the events in his head in the middle of restless nights, further ensuring the state of his sleeping, or rather, lack there of, would remain the same.

Now, here he was, months later, revisiting this case, if not physically, mentally. Years later, decades later, revisiting his childhood. He could do without it. The subject of suicide wasn't usually this touchy for him. Usually he was able to cover it up, temporarily burying it until he had cause to find it again. This had been as big a cause as he could find. To think he'd never told a soul. No one. Another shiver passed through him and he wondered what exactly had made him tell that girl what had happened to him. Wondered why he had chosen her, out of all those wives and the friends he had at SVU, why her, someone they were about to prosecute.

On the other hand, he could see why, to an extent. She had something in common with him and he felt that. It was something that none of his wives or anyone in the squad could ever understand. It was the feeling of suicide, not wanting to commit it, but having been part of it. There was no feeling like it. It wasn't like shooting someone, or seeing someone get shot. It was an odd feeling that he honestly couldn't explain, and maybe didn't want to. He liked the fact that it had a certain mystery to it. Liked the fact that it was one of those things that was hard to dissect, hard to get to the simple center. He liked a challenge and trying to figure it out would be a good challenge.

He heard footsteps behind him, breaking into his thoughts. The voice that called his name was soft, and he knew instantly whose it was. "John, what's up with you?"

Sighing, he turned to face her. This scene was so familiar, the rooftop, the city at his feet, dark, too many thoughts, him, her, except this time, it was a different her. This time the woman he turned to face was blond and and an ADA, not a detective. "Just thinking."

"Pretty chilly weather to be thinking in. Why don't you think inside, where it's warm?"

He faced the lights again, the anonymous city before him. "The cold helps me think."

"Doesn't help the John Munch I know think. In fact, the John Munch I know hates the cold and does everything to prevent going into it. Something's bothering you."

He knew she'd get it. She was too smart not to. Oh well, here goes. "She was different, you know. She knew something that very few people know. I'm one of those few who knows how it feels, knows how you feel guilty for it, whether you are or not. It's this weird feeling that comes with suicide and having been part of it, in some obscure way or another. After I went to you that night, I went to see her, went to talk to her. I wasn't planning on it, at least not consciously. I had to tell her, let her know she was neither alone nor part of a large crowd.

"When I was twelve, my father committed suicide. He blasted a hole in his head one night and left my mother, brother and I to fend for ourselves basically. But what I thought was that he had done it because of me. I felt that it was all my fault because the night before, he had yelled at me for being a wiseass. Being only twelve, I didn't understand why. I didn't understand why someone would want to kill themselves, why they would have reason to take their life. I guess now I understand, though it's taken too long to figure it out."

He heard her footsteps again as she came to stand beside him. "John, I never-"

"Yeah, that's the way I had wanted it. To never tell anyone. Keep it inside, but that case was too much. It couldn't be kept bottled up anymore. I just didn't expect to tell it twice." He didn't wait for her response, just left the roof, finally ready to leave the cold and enter the warmth, enter the bustle of the station house where the noise would muffle his thoughts.

He left her standing there, looking after him, with many thoughts of her own to try and drown out. She waited until she saw his dark, slight form enter the stairwell in a sudden flood of light and then she followed, wanting to get back into the warm precinct herself and wanting to get back to the case at hand. They left their encounter on their roof there, on the rooftop, where a story had been told, a past learned and where an understanding passed between the two. They left it all behind them, and above them, where it belonged. As close to heaven as it could be.


End file.
